“It don’t take three men t’slit some sleepin’ bugger’s neckpipe,” Kemper advised in even lower tones.

“You can’t cut me out of this. I know too much, ha ha,” Tyron said. “I’ve seen his face. A man of quality like that. A knight, or better, he is. But wounded like this, and so far from Castle Hill. There must be someone—ha ha—looking for him. But not someone, I wager, he wants to be found by. Else why would he have sent for the likes of you two? He’s trouble, this one. You think the watch won’t want to hear about this?”

On the floor, Sir Croy rolled over on his side with a moan. The hilts of his two swords stuck up at bad angles from his back. Sweat sheened his face and blood stained his clothes. He wasn’t going to wake anytime soon.

“I didn’t have to cut you in at all,” Tyron went on. “I could have just waited till he slept, then taken everything for myself. We do this together, and then maybe you’ll speak the right word in the right ear. Maybe I find myself in a new position, ha ha.”

Malden knew what the man meant—his measure was already taken. Before agreeing to come with Tyron into the Smoke, he had learned the man’s whole life story.

Tyron was not one of Cutbill’s thieves. He was not really a thief at all, at least not all the time. Mostly he labored at a redsmith’s, working brass into latten with a cloth-covered hammer. It was not pleasant work and it paid barely anything, so Tyron was always happy to supplement his income with a quick bit of thuggery. Rolling drunks, short change confidence games, picking pockets when he could get away with it—any quick and dirty scheme to make an extra bit of coin. He was smart enough to have an arrangement with the tavern’s owner. That showed organizational skills—which had promise. He was just the sort of fellow Cutbill might take on as an apprentice, though it was unlikely he’d ever rise much higher. Tyron only knew he wanted the protection that Cutbill’s guild could bring him, and that alone had made him actually carry out Croy’s bidding.

When Croy had asked Tyron to fetch Malden, Tyron knew enough to contact one of Cutbill’s agents. It might have gone no further, though, had Malden not been at Cutbill’s lair at the time, conferring with Slag the dwarf. He and Kemper had come at once, with Tyron leading them. No more than two hours had passed since Croy tasked Tyron with his message.

Had it taken any longer, Croy might have been dead before they arrived.